


A Kid Walks into a Bar...

by hypereuni



Series: Kakashi Week 2018 [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Background Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Kakashi Week 2018, Mentions of underage drinking, POV Original Character, Prompt: Birthday AU, Prompt: Jounin, Some Humor, Some angst, but honestly Shirley Temples are the best, minor Haruno Sakura/Hatake Kakashi in later chapters, smol Kakashi, what bartenders to do fool kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypereuni/pseuds/hypereuni
Summary: It’s getting close to closing time when the twelve-year-old with the gray hair decides to walk into the bar.Written for Day 1 of Kakashi Week 2018.





	1. Chapter 1

 AN: Slowly moving stuff from Tumblr to here and FFN and vice versa. Come find me on Tumblr! There're a few events on Tumblr happening in September and October that I'm planning to write for (Uchiha month, Kakuhidan anyone?) and I'd love to get some feedback on my writing :) 

Beta'ed by enemyanemone.

 

**Day 1 Prompt: Jounin**

* * *

Business was slow as it usually was on weeknights. It was 9 ’o clock, but the bar was empty, tabletops as spick and span as they were when Kouta had wiped them down this morning. Kouta didn’t see the point of keeping the place open when it was apparent that no one would show up, but the boss had insisted. Whatever. City folk were strange.

When thirty more minutes passed by without a single new customer entering the bar, Kouta resolved to close shop a little earlier than the usual 2am. It was getting late, he was tired, and the only living being other than him and the cat was the ex-chunin at the very end of the counter who came in on Tuesday nights to drink himself silly.  Come to think of it, he should probably send him home soon. Kouta supposed that he should be grateful to the man for splurging so much on cheap booze—the man practically paid Kouta his Tuesday wages—but at the rate he was drinking, the man was going to end up at a hospital with liver failure. Then nobody would come in on Tuesday nights , Kouta’d be out of a job, and he’d have to hightail it back to the countryside.

The doorbell tinkled, heralding the entrance of a new customer. Kouta whipped around. “Welcome, what can I get for—huh?” He scratched his head. “I could have sworn that someone walked i—Oi. Oi, brat. What the hell are you doing in here? And how did you get past me?”

The boy who had just walked in settled himself on the barstool. He arranged his short legs into a more comfortable position and looked up at Kouta.

“I want your strongest drink,” he announced. Kouta looked at him.

…Nope. He was definitely underage. The two girls who had walked in before at least  _ looked _ sixteen; the boy looked like he was  _ ten _ . Kouta had to give him points for the ski mask—it was one of the better attempts to disguise one’s age that he’d seen so far. Kid really didn’t have to dye his hair gray, though.

“Kid, do you know what kind of place this is?” Kouta finally asked.

The boy blinked. “Of course I do,” he said, staring back levelly. “That’s why I’m asking you to serve me your strongest drink. If you’re worried about the money, I have it here.” He took out a little coin purse embroidered with cartoon bones and plunked down a few coins. He looked up at Kouta expectantly.

 “Very funny. This isn’t a place to play around in, brat,” Kouta sighed. “The playground’s a few blocks away.”

“I’m legally an adult, mister,” the boy said, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh yeah? How old are you this year?”

“Twelve. I’m small for my age. I’ll be thirteen in a couple of months.”

“…That’s not even close to the legal age.”

“Not for shinobi.”

Kouta squinted at the boy. “Squirt, you’re expecting me to believe that you’re a ninja?”

“Yes,” the boy replied with a serious expression on his face.

“Right, and I’m the Hokage,” Kouta muttered, surveying the boy from head to toe. The brat didn’t seem to be lying; he was wearing a hitai-ate with the standard Konoha leaf symbol engraved in the metal plate. He had on a dark mesh top with a single gray stripe running down the middle of each sleeve. Two leather straps criss-crossed his chest. “Even if you are a ninja, I’m still not going to serve you drinks.  Er, Boss’s orders. Sorry, kid.”

“That didn’t stop you from serving those two girls before,” the boy pointed out. “They sure didn’t look like they were over sixteen to me." He smiled. “You’re a smart man, right?”

… _Tch._ Kid wasn’t even the slightest bit cute.  

There was a quiet groan from the end of the bar. From the corner of his eye, Kouta spotted the drunk lifting his head from the table.

“Just…stay there, and be quiet, okay? I’ll get this guy back home,” Kouta mumbled to the boy. It was high time that the ex-chunin went back home, and Kouta hoped to the high heavens that the man didn’t hear him being blackmailed by a kid ten years younger than him. He’d never live down the embarrassment.

Everything will be fine. He’d put this guy in a taxi, make this kid a Shirley Temple, and then go home and watch some late night TV. That was the plan.

Of course, his plans never worked.

The drunk at the end of the counter raised his head. “Hey, I kno’ you,” he slurred, swaying slightly.

“Of course you do,” Kouta soothed. “Sir, it’s time to go home. Your wife will be worried about you if you stay out too late this time.”

“No, no’ you,” the man said, leaning against Kouta. He raised a shaking hand and pointed at the boy at the counter. “Him." 

The boy tensed.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” he said shortly.

 “Nah.” The drunk squinted at the boy. “You look familiar.”

“Sir, let’s get you home, shall we?” Kouta said a little desperately. The ex-chunin could be a mean drunk at times.

“You…you look li’ that guy,” the man mumbled, still scrutinizing the boy. “The traitor.” He spat on the ground.

* * *

 

When Kouta came back inside after packing the drunkard into a cab, he shoved a bowl of shredded squid and peanuts towards the kid. The boy looked at the contents of the bowl dubiously.

“I didn’t pay for these,” he pointed out.

“On the house,” Kouta said. “Sorry about that. He’s not usually this nasty when he’s drunk.”

“…You’re not from around these parts, are you?” The boy said, watching Kouta warily.

“Nah. My hometown’s a day’s journey away from Konoha,” Kouta said breezily. “So, care to explain?”

“Not really,” the boy said. He waved his hand dismissively. “Best if you don’t know.” 

Kouta decided not to push it.

 “…So,” Kouta eyed the boy. “What’s the occasion?”

“I made jounin,” the kid said, shrugging. Kouta choked.

“You’re thirteen.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re tiny.”

The boy arched a brow. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, but jounin?! You’ve got to be kiddi—wait. You are serious.”

The boy looked at him with a deadpan expression. “Why would I lie to a stranger?”

Kouta gaped at the boy sitting in front of him. “W-well, I mean—congratulations! Wow.”

The boy flushed. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “So, about that drink…”

Kouta produced a glass with a flourish. “All yours,” he announced. A dash of grenadine, a splash of ginger ale, topped off with a bright red maraschino cherry. The boy picked up the cherry on the side of the glass.

“It’s so…red.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Kouta laughed. “It’s what I make for my niece when she asks me to make her a drink.”

“It looks radioactive,” the boy said doubtfully, poking at the cherry with a finger.

“Well, they do say to pick your poison,” Kouta muttered. “Kidding, kidding. It’s the cherry syrup. Nothing bad.”

“…Oh. I like cherries.”


	2. Birthday

A few days passed before the kid showed up at the bar again.

“Welcome, dear custo—oh, it’s just you,” Kouta sighed when he spotted a familiar head of gray hair heading over to the bar counter.

The boy clambered up the wooden rungs of the stool and perched himself on the seat. 

“I’ll have a drink,” he announced without preamble. “Don’t make it red.”

“Why, hello to you too,” Kouta said sarcastically. “What’s that? Why, I’m doing very well, thanks ever so much for asking.” The boy stared at him without a single change of expression.

“Alright, shoot. Whaddaya want, kid?” Kouta said, giving up. So much for not-so-subtle reminders of basic etiquette, although Kouta supposed that judging from last night’s altercation, the kid didn’t have someone at home to teach him.

The boy deliberated for a moment. “I liked the drink that you made me last time,” he admitted. “It was surprisingly good.”

“Another Shirley Temple, then?” Kouta asked. Of course it was  _ good _ . His Shirley Temples were fucking  _ great _ . They were even better when he spiked them, but he sure wasn’t going to tell the kid that any time soon.

“Nah.” The boy wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like the color red.”

“I can get you a glass of coke with lemon, if you want.”

“No thanks.”

“Tell you what. How about I get you some nice, good, old fashioned tonic water–“

“No, I want a real drink. Like what adults drink.”

“Sorry. Not happening.”

“Why not, old man?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re twelve. And I’m not an old man, kid. I’m only twenty-two.”

“But I really am an adult! You can ask Hokage-sama or Sensei. I’m serious.”

“Yeah, well, sucks for you.”

“…Please?”

“No.”

“I won’t call you an old man ever again.”

“That’s still a no.”

“Come on, old man,” the boy wheedled. “Just a drop. A tiny drop. Pleeeeease.”

“Brat, you’ll have to come up with a really good reason as to why I should risk my job selling alcohol to a twelve year old.” Kouta looked at the clock. 11:00pm. He’d best get started on the dirty dishes in the sink if he wanted to make it home in time for the late night funnies that started at midnight. “I’m going to close shop early, so I’ll going to head out to the back to clean up. Just holler when you’ve decided what you want to drink that isn’t alcoholi—“

“-day,” the boy muttered quietly through his mask.

“What?”

“It’s my birthday,” the kid said. He squirmed in his seat, cheeks reddening. “You know. Today.” He blinked big, soulful puppy-dog eyes at Kouta.

“…You’re still underage,” Kouta pointed out half-heartedly, but they both knew that it was a losing cause. Whatever. He was a softie. Sue him. “So. Have you decided yet?”

“There’re too many names on this list.” The boy squinted at the dinky plastic menu. 

“Can I have a dirty martini?”

“Nope. That stuff is disgusting. Believe me, you don’t wanna try it. Can’t imagine why people drink that crap.” Kouta shuddered.

“Then I want a Ramos Gin Fizz. Or a Rum Martinez,” the boy said, still perusing the menu. “Oh, oh, the Commonwealth looks pretty cool. How many different things do you put in it? Can I watch?”

Trust the kid to pick out the most time-consuming and finicky drinks from a menu listing at least 50 different cocktails.

“Uh, look, I’ll just make you a nice pina colada. How’s that?”

“Will it be alcoholic?” The boy looked at Kouta hopefully.

“…”

“…Please?”

“…Fine,” Kouta groaned. Just this once. Hopefully the boss would never know. Besides, a wee drop wouldn’t hurt the kid. “But once you finish that, I’m making you drink this glass of milk. Just so I don’t completely feel like a terrible piece of trash for letting a minor drink.”

“I don’t drink milk. Milk is for  _ babies _ ,” the boy complained.

“Well, too bad. Start drinking it from now on. It’ll help you grow taller, and uh, you know. Stronger,” Kouta said. At least that’s what he thought his mother told him when he was little. Something about calcium and bones and whatnot. He didn’t really pay that much attention. 

“But I’m already a strong ninja,” the boy protested.

“Yeah, but you’re a shrimp. Milk will help you grow tall and big and strong. Like me.” Kouta puffed out his chest.

“You don’t look very big or strong,” the boy said doubtfully, looking askance at Kouta’s reedy frame and stick-like arms.

“You are  _ so _ not cute, kid.”


	3. Chapter 3

“The frozen fruity thing was great,” the kid announced when he visited the bar the next day. “Can I have it again?”

“Nope,” Kouta immediately said. “But I can give you a glass of milk, and some snacks.” He pushed a glass of milk and a plate of sweets towards the kid. “Boss brought me some melon pan from the bakery—you can have that, too.”

The brat scowled at the glass of milk. “But I already drank milk yesterday.”

“Yeah? Drink more. I heard that one cup a day is good for you.”

“I told you, stop treating me like a kid,” the boy complained. “I’m technically an adult now.”

“Not to me, squirt,” Kouta said. He nudged the glass closer to the boy. “If you don’t drink this, I won’t let you in ever again.”

The boy pouted for a white after that, but the glass and the plate were empty by the time Kouta shooed him out of the bar at midnight. 

Kouta thought that he had seen the last of the boy then, but he was wrong. The boy still came back the very next day, looking like an angry ball of fluff. He kept to the farthest corner of the bar and sulked. 

“Oi. Oi, brat.”

The boy ignored him and kept tracing circles on the wooden surface of the bar with a finger. Kouta sighed. 

Kouta, though, wasn’t a favorite uncle for nothing, and after a few rounds of arm-wrestling (which he lost, devastatingly) and bribes of food and virgin cocktails (“Tell you what, kid, I’ll make you a non-alcoholic pina colada AND dinner if you promise not to sulk. What? Saury and eggplant? What are you, forty?”), the boy went back home, looking somewhat mollified. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but the brat was kind of adorable. 

The boy began to visit the bar regularly, usually late at night and always after the ex-chunin had gone back home. Kouta grumbled a little about the hassle, but he always made sure to save some milk in the fridge and stock up on snacks. 

He adamantly refused to give him any more alcohol, though.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I won’t be here for a few weeks,” the boy said, one night. It was busier than usual; there were three customers other than the boy, two of whom came regularly on the weekends. At first, Kouta was worried that another altercation would happen when the boy came in, but it seemed as if his worries were unfounded. Save for a few strange glances at the child sitting at the counter, the regulars didn’t say a word and kept to themselves. The new customer by the window seemed too plastered to care whether or not there was an underaged minor in the vicinity.

“What?” Kouta asked. 

“I said, I won’t be here for a few weeks,” the boy repeated. “I have to go somewhere.” He fidgeted. “I thought you would have liked to know.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks, squirt,” Kouta said, a little touched. “I’ll just have to use the milk in the fridge for my cereal, then.”

“…That’s not what I meant, old man," the boy groaned. He hopped off the stool. “Thanks for the food,” he said over his shoulder.

“See you in a few weeks, kid!” Kouta said cheerfully. “Stay safe.” The stinky brat had the audacity to roll his eyes before he scampered off. His ears, much to Kouta’s amusement, were tinged pink. The door closed after him.

One of the regulars sitting at the bar chuckled, watching the boy's slight form disappear into the distance.

“Cute kid you got there,” the man said. He winked. “Must have had him young, eh?”

“HE’S NOT MINE!!”

* * *

Without the kid around, Kouta was free to close shop earlier than usual and hustle back home, just in time for the late night TV dramas. It was nice to be able to go home early for once, he reflected, absently munching on popcorn while watching the flickering screen. It wasn’t like he was the brat’s babysitter, anyway. The kid was a shinobi. He could take care of himself.

He flipped a coin during the slow periods at work. Heads meant that the boy would come into the bar later that night; tails meant the opposite. 

Tails.

Tails.

Tails. 

He firmly ignored the wave of relief that washed over him when the boy showed up two weeks later in travel-worn clothing, looking and smelling about as good as a dirty sock from the bottom of the hamper. 

“Hey, brat,” Kouta greeted. He pushed down all of the concerned questions that popped up in his head when he saw the bruises on the boy’s arms and the streaks of dirt in his gray hair. “You smell terrible.”

The boy just gave him a half-lidded look of disdain before clambering up the seat. Now that he was getting taller, he didn’t have to make as much of an effort to reach the high barstools.

Kouta slid over the usual glass of milk with a straw and a plate of dorayaki. “Got these from the bakery by the Uchiha clan compound,” he said, nodding at the sweets. “They’re good—not too sweet.” 

The boy scowled at the mention of Uchiha. At least, Kouta thought he was scowling at the name; it was a little hard to tell with the mask covering up his mouth. Besides, the kid scowled at everything, nowadays.

It was probably puberty, Kouta decided, somewhat mournfully. Ah, youth.

“Hmph,” the boy sniffed. Kouta, though, noticed how his eyes lingered on the stack of pancakes. He tensed. It was a game of his to catch the boy with his mask down; he’d never managed to, after all these weeks. He forced himself to relax. Any second, now. 

Of course, he just had to blink at the wrong time. When Kouta reopened his eyes, there was one less dorayaki on the plate, and the boy’s cheeks were bulging like a hamster’s. The stupid mask was up, as always.

_ Damn.  _

The boy, still munching, gave Kouta an eye-smile. “Hmmhmhmh,” he mumbled through a mouthful of anko and sweet bread. “ _Hmhmh._ ” He stuffed the straw under the mask and gulped down the milk. 

“You’ll never catch me,” he clarified. “I’m too fast for you.” His eyes crinkled again.

Kouta gritted his teeth. Now he really wanted to rub the smug expression right off the boy’s face. 

“Thanks for the food,” the brat said, jumping off the seat. The scowl was gone; he looked like he was in a better mood after teasing Kouta. “See you later!”

“You little--don’t come back!” Kouta yelled after him.

 

He didn’t know that he would come to regret his words very, very soon. 


	5. Chapter 5

Summer nights in Konoha, Kouta thought irritably, fanning himself with a menu, were the absolute worst. The sun had already gone down and the cicadas had stopped humming, but the unbearable heat hadn't dissipated. No wonder the bar was empty; everyone was probably too exhausted from the weather to even venture outside.

He looked at the clock. 10pm. The brat was running late.

"I'm setting off on my first mission as a team leader tomorrow," the boy had said last night, puffing out his small chest. Kouta had ruffled his hair.

"Look at you, squirt!" He had said admiringly, and the boy had preened. 

Now, Kouta squinted through the grimy window to look at the tumultuous mass of clouds gathering together across the sky. A storm was coming, and he hoped the kid didn't get caught in the deluge.  

The storm came an hour later. The heavens roared their displeasure at the world below them, and their wrath brought about a deluge of water that slammed against the walls and windows of the bar with frightening ferocity. Lightning crackled above the village menacingly. 

Kouta tidied the bar while waiting out the storm. When all the bottles of syrups and liqueurs were put away (the more expensive stuff securely locked away in the wooden cabinet), he started mopping up the floors, glancing out at the window from time to time. The rain was still going strong, and there was still no sign of the boy.

The brat was probably just busy, Kouta reasoned. They were in the middle of a war, after all. Come to think of it, the only shinobi he had actually seen around the village were the schoolchildren, elderly or the injured; most of the able-bodied had already been sent to the frontlines. It wasn't too much of a stretch to assume that the boy had gotten another mission right after completing the one earlier today. 

He ignored the familiar feeling of dread that settled in his bones. The brat was fine, he reassured himself. He would be fine. 

 

The rain stopped as abruptly as it started, and after a few minutes, Kouta deemed it safe enough to poke his head outside. The storm had gotten rid of the sticky humidity, fortunately, and the streets gleamed under the electric streetlights. He had forgotten to wear boots today, but as long as he avoided the treacherous puddles, the way home should be relatively fine.

When it came time to pull the shutters over the storefront, however, he hesitated. 

It shouldn't hurt to wait up for a little bit, he decided. It was still 12:30, after all. He went back inside.

He lingered at the bar until the streetlights flickered off and the first, weak rays of light filtered in through the windows.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The boy didn’t come back the next day. 

He didn’t appear the next day, nor the day after that.

Maybe the kid was sick, Kouta worried. He was pretty sure that he had a half-full jar of honeyed lemons that his mother had sent from the countryside somewhere in his fridge. He hesitated, because he was a bit of a miser when it came to sharing things that came from home, before he remembered that the kid probably didn’t have a parent that would make him eat porridge and honey lemon tea while he was in bed. Traitors weren’t taken kindly to, especially during wartime. In the best case scenario, the kid’s parent was still alive, trapped in the bowels of the T&I building. 

In the worst case scenario…

Kouta grumbled for a bit before trotting over to the fridge.

It was only when he was about to set off, the jar of lemons tucked under his arm, that he remembered that he didn't know where the brat lived. In fact, Kouta realized belatedly, he didn't even know the kid’s _name_. In his defense, though, he’d never had a reason to--the kid seemed perfectly content to be called “brat” and “kid.”

Well, _fudge_. What was he supposed to do now?!

A few more nights passed before Kouta was able to find some information about the brat’s whereabouts. 

The ex-chunin staggered into the bar on the sixth night after the brat’s non-appearance. 

Kouta served him his usual fare—a bottle of beer with a complimentary dish of peanuts—before withdrawing to the bar. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his drunken antics again.  The ex-chunin, unexpectedly, was in a chatty mood, much to his chagrin. 

“I don’t see the Hatake spawn around,” the man observed aloud, nursing his second bottle. He belched. “Hell, I’d be ashamed if I had a father like that.” When Kouta doesn’t respond to the bait, the man leered at him. “Oh, don’t tell me that you didn’t know who his father was.”

When Kouta remained silent, the ex-chunin cackled. 

“So you don’t know,” he observed gleefully. “I’ll tell you then.” He rose from his table and stumbled over to the bar, bottle in hand. The stench of rancid sweat and alcohol came closer, and Kouta nearly gagged. 

The man smiled, bloodshot eyes fixed on Kouta’s face. 

“He’s the one who set off the war, you know,” the man said. “Hatake Sakumo, that fool. He’s the one who brought me back like this.” He gestured vaguely at his right arm, or what was left of it. Most of the sleeve was hacked off, and the remaining fabric was pinned neatly to his shoulder. The ex-chunin took another swig from the bottle. “He should have left me there to die,” he muttered. “Death is far more honorable than this farce of a life.”

“The boy isn’t his father,” Kouta said curtly. The man looked up.

“Oh, yes,” he said unexpectedly. “He’s made of tougher stuff than his father. I heard that he was on the squad responsible for the victory at Kannabi today.”

“…What do you mean?” 

The man blinked, evidently surprised. “You don’t know about what happened at the Kannabi Bridge?”

“I don’t follow the war,” Kouta said shortly. “Tell me. Is he okay?”

The man barked out a short humorless laugh. “Oh, the Hatake brat is fine,” he said, swaying unsteadily. He took another swig from his bottle. “Probably as fine as one ever is, when their teammate dies in front of them.”

“…WHAT??!!”


End file.
